the inheritance of maturity

can you remember the aristocratic era?
platonic, nonplussed. they were watching.
looking back, it appears she’s moved on.
always bleeding, alive and forever dripping life
into the pages of notebooks and the knees of her jeans.
fabrics and fictions meld with this quintessence of vicissitude,
once vibrant, now rust-colored and rustic in feel
as it dried up and drove us to enlightenment.
there’s something so real about her these days.
from touch we connected and conceded to converge.
the sound surrounds who stands there in her space
with a smile and bloodied hands.
when caught in the act, there was that severe lack of denial
and no desire to cover his tracts.
attraction, now, is no less foreign than putting pen to paper
and placing the words where they appear here on this page.
evolution is ever the solid solution.
we bleed because we are real, and really, could use the reminder.
in dividing your time, what have you left for remainders?
be kind, and the kinder will the kitschy be to you.
the eccentric elite will wash your feet—
you! a saviour to the sociopath and sidewalk jesuses!
and we shall all rue the day of your crucifixion,
oh, just you wait and see.

lick your wounds, patch your bones,
get back on the road.

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